Maybe

Sitting under the old, crusty banyan tree, she was reading a book. As usual. She used to come here every Sunday without fail, away from the world, to be alone, and yet, to be with him. Her back against the trunk of the tree, she sifted through the pages, one after another, her mind wandering. Sometimes following the story in the book, and sometimes, her life.

It had been 3 years since the incident, and yet, it felt as if it was just yesterday. The time they had spent together in the very same spot, echoed in her memories, with the promise of never fading away. They used to come here every Sunday, just like she did now. They made this their own little world, away from the hustle of the real one. They watched the rose bushes every time, as the flowers bloomed, then wilted away with time, and then, bloomed again. It made them feel that no matter what happens, their love for each other will continue to bloom, year after year. And she felt so very sure of that every time she looked into his eyes. Eyes filled with the promise of a future together, filled with laughter and happiness.

He used to bring flowers for her every time they met. Either a rose from the nearby bush, or some from the florist across the street. That day, he arrived as usual, but without any. He had tried to get some on his way here, he said, but the florist had no change. She of course said that it did not matter at all. But he was adamant, not wanting to break their tradition. She waited for him while he went to another florist this time, a little further away. 'Will be back soon' he had said, his eyes full of life as usual, and his face radiant, she was sure, knowing that she was his. He did not return.

The driver of the car that had hit him, was drunk. He had a fight with his wife, he said later, and had been to the pub to 'forget his problems'. She waited for nearly an hour, trying to reach him on his phone constantly, without any luck. All she remembered is that she decided to walk to the shop where he said he would be going. She noticed the crowded street, her heart missing a beat instinctively. After that, all she remembered was a numbness. In her mind, and body. She vaguely remembers seeing him on the street, stretched out on the ground, blood everywhere.

A loud 'thud' jolted her out of her thoughts. She looked around. The book still in her hand, her finger toying to turn the page. A young man seemed to have tripped and fallen beside her. Very quickly, she wiped the single tear from her eye, lest he see it. He had now got up, and was collecting the fallen flowers which he evidently had, in the basket he was holding. 'Are you ok?' she asked, approaching to offer help. He looked up at her. The same radiance she was so used to seeing on the face of the one she loved the most, was on him too. He stared at her for what seemed to be an eternity. Then realizing that it was inappropriate, he looked down, beginning to collect the flowers again. She heard him vaguely mumble 'Yes, I am fine'. She began helping him the with flowers, and they began talking. And she couldn't seem to stop! After years of emptiness, there was suddenly a feeling of joy, of elation, that she felt every time she met him. And here was someone, who made her feel the same way, and by the look in his eyes, he felt it too.

Winter was almost over, and the rose bushes nearby were beginning to bloom, the scarlet red of the flowers barely beginning to show. She looked around at the bushes, while talking to him, laughing, smiling, wondering, was the winter over for her too?

Maybe.

~ The End ~

The Pact

Read from the beginning                                             

Chapter 3

It had almost been half an hour that George had reached home. There wasn’t anybody else there. He had sent Edith with their son to her mother's house for a week. He knew that he had planned on doing this, and didn’t want them knowing about it or asking any questions. He was sitting in the bedroom, the money, laid down in front of him on the floor. He just kept looking at it. He wasn’t a bad man, he thought, he wasn't a thief. But there wasn't any other option left for him. Still looking at the money, his mind wandered. He thought about poor Molly.

Molly, his daughter, had been diagnosed with tuberculosis. They had no idea how it happened or from where she got the disease. What had seemed like all the happiness in the world, suddenly came down crashing right in front of their eyes. Edith was devastated; George, grief stricken. They both tried the best they could. They got the best doctors, all the medicines they had to. Edith looked after the child night and day. George put all his money and effort into saving their poor child. He even landed into a huge debt, trying to make sure that Molly could be cured. That, however, wasn't meant to be. Even after numerous doctors and medicines, one fateful evening, their Molly just gave up on life. Just like that, he thought. He remembered that day clearly, as if it was just yesterday. 

He had been sitting beside her at that time, holding her hand, caressing her forehead, trying to comfort her. Then she started coughing. It wasn't really uncommon, her having been sick for weeks by that time. This time, however, it didn't stop. She coughed and bled, and coughed and kept bleeding from her mouth and nose. George had panicked. He knew it was bad. He was alone at home with Molly that evening. Edith was out to get groceries. She didn't take very long, but that day even fifteen minutes were too late. She reached home and found George still sitting beside the child, holding her tiny hand between his palms, just looking at her face. Molly just laid there, quiet, still, her blue eyed face looking more angelic than ever, sharply contrasting with the red, blood soaked sheets. For a fraction of a second, Edith didn't understand. Her eyes darted back and forth from her motionless child to her sombre husband, and then she knew. A mother's instinct immediately realized what had happened, and on the very spot she was standing, Edith fainted. 

...To be Continued

The Pact

Read Chapter 1

Chapter 2

The whole endeavour wasn’t very difficult to plan. Not technically anyway. Mr. Bennett, the septuagenarian, lived virtually alone, apart from the cleaning lady who came to his house every morning for laundry and housekeeping. Mr. Bennett had never married and didn’t have any children either. None that George could find out about anyway. For reasons known only to him, Mr. Bennett was always cautious in his demeanour, and at times, a bit jumpy. The tiny timber supply business that he had started when he was in his early twenties, had remained exactly that even after almost fifty years. Tiny. Maybe he didn’t really want to expand operations, or he didn’t know how to. In the seven years and three months that George had worked there as an accountant, he couldn’t really understand why. Neither did he care. The entire time that he had worked in that tiny office, his employer had always been apathetic towards him. The only times he did display any emotion towards George, was if the numbers in the books didn’t add up. At such times, Mr. Bennett, red in his face and visibly quivering, would display a sudden burst of energy, all anger, and make sure that not only George, but the entire office knew what was wrong with his calculations. George always thought that it was a bit excessive and uncalled for. There weren't many such instances; George was a good accountant. However, these heated, one sided interactions did take their toll on his frail nerves, and the quiet, timid accountant subsequently came to loath his meetings with his employer and developed a general feeling of hatred and disgust towards him.

This, however, wasn’t the reason for the aforementioned act of theft. Although it was true that George thoroughly disliked Mr. Bennett, he wasn’t the kind of person to steal from him. Or from anyone for that matter. George Wilkins was the kind of person who, as the saying goes, wouldn't hurt a fly. Definitely not steal from one. He had managed to convince himself that it wasn’t really a matter of choice anymore. He had tried other avenues to get the money. He tried borrowing money from some friends but couldn’t, approached his bank but failed. Even requesting some sort of an advance from his meagre salary didn’t work. Twenty thousand dollars wasn’t a small sum, and the fact that he was an accountant at a small time timber supply company didn’t help either. 

His full time job with a small yet steady salary, did mean that he had been able to save some money earlier, despite getting married really young. He had eventually realised that it was a mistake to do so. The hopes, dreams and enthusiasm of the young couple fizzled out soon after his wife, Edith, had a miscarriage within the first year of marriage. A mourning wife, the huge mortgage on the house and the salary of a junior accountant seemed to weigh the thin, shy, yet sprightly young lad down. Happiness, however, did return to the household. In their third year of marriage the young couple had a baby girl, and in the next, a boy. They were ecstatic! Somehow, despite all their financial woes, life seemed better and beautiful. Edith had to be a full time home maker of course, which meant that George was the only one earning. His salary wasn’t enough, but they still managed to have a happy and fulfilling life. He did have some debts; the kids had to be given the best care that they could, but nothing so big that he couldn’t manage. Between his regular salary and some overtime at work, the family did manage to live well and save. It seemed that the worse was indeed behind them.

All that changed when one morning, Molly, their daughter, coughed. Once at first, then again, and then again rather violently, and spit blood.

...Chapter 3

The Pact

Chapter 1

His hands were trembling. Quite violently so. Sitting in the subway train, speeding across the interconnected labyrinth of tunnels, all he could think about right now were his hands. He tried to control his breath, heaving his chest in and out in a controlled manner, trying to calm his nerves and in turn, his anxiety. He had read about it somewhere. Hands in his jacket pocket, clutching the huge wad of currency notes, he tried to breath in a controlled fashion. The cap he had worn helped to block the light of the passenger car out, which, strangely, seemed far brighter than usual. Eyes closed, fingers wrapped around the money tightly, he took slow and steady breaths. After several seconds, which seemed like an eternity to him, he was able to calm down and think clearly. 'I am ok now' he thought, feeling much relaxed and composed. He felt it was normal to have been unnerved by the whole experience of it. The train stopped at the next station. He got up slowly from his seat, calm and composed so as to not raise any suspicion, walked out of the sliding doors and onto the platform. Slowly at first, and then moving briskly through the crowd of daily commuters, George Wilkins, the accountant, walked out of the platform, onto the road, and then towards his house, with the twenty thousand dollars that he had just stolen from his boss's house.

...Chapter 2